Being able to recall the chillout vibes of Bran Van 3000’s ‘Drinking in LA’ distinguishes me as more than double the legal drinking age. So apologies for sounding like an old curmudgeon, but ‘Drinking at the LS’ definitely doesn’t have the same ring to it.
Football has a complex relationship with alcohol, whereas mine is more simple: I like a drink, but I don’t need one, especially at extortionate prices. Having moved north in my early-30s, I can’t be sure if it was age or geography that turned me from lager to craft beer but either way, a menu of Amstel, Heineken, Birra Moretti and Strongbow holds little appeal.
The parsimonious northerner in me also insists that I’m not paying them London prices of more than £5 a pint for what tastes like warm, fizzy piss. The other thing that deters me from drinking inside the stadium is the toilets. Even before reaching middle-age, I was a piss per pint sort of person, so if I finish one shortly before kick-off then it’s almost inevitable that my bladder will feel uncomfortably full within 45 minutes. And it can be uncomfortable enough watching West Ham.
Our team can also drive us to drink, and I’d be a lot more relaxed with a pint in hand, sipping leisurely as I would when watching at home or in the pub. It’s a sad fact of life that English cricket and rugby fans can be trusted to drink in their seats but football followers will forever be tarred as hooligans, seemingly incapable of imbibing any quantity of alcohol without turning violent. Then again, we don’t help ourselves.
The Europa Conference League Final was not exactly marred by plastic cups being thrown at Fiorentina captain Cristiano Biraghi but his bloodied head was not a good look for the travelling support who got giddy with the idea of drinks receptacles as missiles, as if the prospect of becoming Champions of Europe weren’t head-spinning enough.
The continent’s generally more relaxed attitude towards alcohol has been enjoyed responsibly by most of those who’ve followed West Ham’s European adventures. And this summer’s World Cup in Germany showed it’s not only English fans that can’t keep hold of their plastic pint glasses.
On the other hand, the craze for drenching everyone in beer when a goal is scored does seem to be a peculiarly English phenomenon. I’ll admit the scenes from fan zones and box parks look good on TV – and it’s probably that Insta appeal that has instigated it – but I’m buggered if I want to be part of those scenes.
The dramatic impact of a goal scored in football carries more weight than runs/wickets in cricket or tries in rugby so the emotive impulse is understandable and a little spillage perfectly acceptable. However, I would query why some have lost the decades-old ability, still on show in most pubs across the country, to celebrate and keep hold of a pint.
Allowing drinks of any description in the stands could quickly be spoilt by the hyperactive revellers who must be mixing their beer with the equally expensive Prime. More money than sense. I repeat: nearly £10 a pint. Also, VAR.
While I can give or take a drink before a match or at the stadium, preferring to settle in the pub afterwards to cogently dissect 90 minutes of action, for some the matchday experience is intertwined with alcohol from breakfast through to dinner.
During my university days I manned a bar at Coventry’s Highfield Road, which was then enjoying its last hurrah. A few committed regulars would come direct from a full English and a couple of refreshers at the city-centre Wetherspoons to make the most of the hour or so allocation before kick-off – annoyingly, we stopped serving 10 minutes beforehand due to some regulation or other and we always used the same distinctive latecomer as our cue to pull down the shutters, much to his annoyance.
The hardcore drinkers probably worked harder than I did, putting away as much as they could during this time and still having change from a tenner such were the prices in those days. Then they’d be back at 15.40 on the dot for the half-time reopening, evidently more concerned about their drinking action than the football action. There was a tiny wall-mounted TV in the corner but it was delayed and jittery, although I’m not sure they ever noticed.
Perhaps the most surreal alcohol-related experience I’ve had was as a neutral at St James’ Park. Firstly, accustomed to jostling for position at the Boleyn and dealing with thirsty crowds at Coventry, I’d never seen a more orderly queue, possibly aided by the fact that Newcastle Brown Ale was the only thing ordered if not the only thing served.
When we took to our seats at the end of an aisle, the rotund Geordie in front promptly passed out, sprawled across the walkway so that toilet-goers had to tentatively step around him. Assured by his mates that he was alright, he proved it by rousing himself for a half-time drink before returning to his comatose position in time for the second half. In fairness to the fella, it was 2007 and Big Fat Sam had not long taken charge in the North East.
For me, it will always be football first, drink second. And it would be nice to be able to politicise this stance by stating that I won’t have another drink at the London Stadium until concessions for juniors and OAPs are returned. Except the food and drink concessions are controlled by the LLDC, so whether the order’s Amstel, OJ or Bovril, it’ll do nothing to hit the board where it hurts. Like I said, it’s a complicated relationship.
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